The Cold Nowhere

52

Brooke Hahne stared at the knife on the passenger seat.

She’d taken the knife from the kitchen drawer in her apartment. It was stainless. Sharp. She picked it up and clutched it in her hand and studied the blade, which glinted under the dome light of the Kia. The handle felt cold. When she tensed her wrist, she saw the radial artery bulge from her skin. She touched the flat edge of the blade to the swollen artery. With a vertical flick, she could open it up. Blood would spurt, warm and bright red, like a poinsettia.

It wouldn’t take long for her to die. Not long at all. It would be swift and painless.

She’d driven aimlessly in the darkness for two hours, and now she’d finally parked. She sat in the chill of her car and wondered how everything had gone this far. How the past had spiraled out of control. She should have put an end to it ten years ago, but she’d fooled herself into thinking she could do penance and make it right. Every day at the shelter, saving lost lives, was atonement for her sins.

Except that was a lie.

In reality, she was a coward, afraid of spending her life in prison. She’d been scared and selfish, unwilling to face what she’d done. Now more people had died because of her, one after another, like a bad dream that wouldn’t stop.

People she’d never met. And people she’d loved.

‘Oh, Dory,’ she murmured. ‘What did I do?’

A photograph of the two of them dangled from her rear-view mirror, where she’d taped it. They sat on top of the stone runs known as the Cribs just off the Boardwalk, in their bikinis, cheek to cheek, arms around each other’s waists, silly grins on their faces. A few seconds later, she remembered, they’d dove into the cold lake water hand in hand. They were roommates and college freshmen then, giddy about everything that was ahead of them. If only they’d known.

For Dory, drugs were ahead of her. Misery, addiction, shame.

For Brooke, it was Leonard Keck. That was how it all started.

Back then, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. She needed money, and he had money, and all she had to do was disconnect her body from her mind. She wasn’t the only one doing it. Some of the other girls talked about it in hushed tones, behind closed doors. A party. A nice dress. It was like a date, but the happy ending came with cash. Two hundred, three hundred, sometimes five hundred dollars. A fortune.

Lenny had hit on her after class like a rich old fool, and she’d thought, This is my chance. Why not? You can fuck me, but it’ll cost you. It was business, like selling a car. They both got what they wanted out of the deal. She could smile and fake it as he did whatever he wanted to her, and the end justified the means. No student loans. No mountain of debt.

It was her body. Her choice. Everybody said it was a victimless crime.

No one was supposed to get hurt.

No one was supposed to get killed.

He pawed her everywhere with his old, clumsy hands. His fingers fumbled with her silk blouse, and he popped the buttons, ripping the flaps apart and yanking the cups of her lace bra down to expose her breasts. He covered them with his mouth, sucked on her pale pink nipples, and squeezed her small mounds until he left fingerprints.

‘Shit, look at you,’ he panted, his eyes wide, feasting on her nude flesh.

It was the same every time they were together. Like she was a museum piece. Like he couldn’t believe she belonged to him.

Lenny still wore his tux from the university fundraiser. The studs on his white shirt rubbed her bare skin as his body crushed her. She could feel his hardness through his trousers, aching to be released. He already had her skirt bunched above her hips, her panties around her ankles, and her knees spread like butterfly wings. She watched his back arch as he sank down her body. He buried his face and tongue between her legs, lapping at her slit like a dog at a water bowl.

She squirmed away and grabbed his face and kissed him. Her fingers ran through his hair, and she took one hand and rhythmically squeezed the pole under his zipper. ‘Let’s go inside. I want to be naked in your bed tonight.’

‘Oh, yeah.’

Lenny half-pushed, half-kicked open the rear door of the car. He staggered into the cold December night. Brooke slid her panties from her ankles and stuffed them in her purse. She disentangled herself from her bra and let her blouse hang open in an expanse of smooth skin. She followed him out of the car. He was so drunk he could barely stand. He dropped his keys on the driveway and got down on all fours in the snow and snatched them into his fist. Breathing hard, he rocked back on his heels and stared up at her.

‘You are gorgeous,’ he said. ‘Shit, I want to be inside you.’

‘Yeah? Well, come on, lover.’

She helped him to his feet. The knees of his trousers were wet and dirty. He steadied himself with an arm around her waist as they staggered up the walkway to his front door. She kept her eyes open for traffic and neighbors, but no one was around to recognize her. There was no streetlight. They were invisible.

She’d been here many times in the past year, but this time was different. This time she was scared.

He jabbed the key at the lock but couldn’t get it in. She peeled the keys from his hands.

‘Let me do it.’

‘Hurry up. I want you so bad. No condoms tonight, huh? I hate condoms.’

‘Bareback, sure, if that’s what you want.’

‘You still on the pill?’

‘Duh,’ she grinned.

He pushed the silk sleeve off her shoulder. ‘I’m not going have to worry about STDs, huh? I can’t afford to get fucking herpes or something.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m clean, baby.’

‘You sure? You seen a doctor lately?’

‘Oh, yeah. I’ve got a doctor. Don’t worry about that.’

She twisted the key in the lock and Lenny spilled inside as she opened the door. The house smelled musty and rich. The lights were off. On the wall, a white alarm panel flashed, and she saw the countdown on the screen. They had twenty-five seconds to deactivate the security system before the alarm sounded. He was too drunk to do it himself.

‘What’s the code, Lenny?’

‘Huh?’

‘The alarm code, baby.’

‘Oh, shit. It’s … what the hell is it? One … one seven … one …’

Brooke tapped buttons with the pads of her fingers. Her red fingernails glowed under the LED light. The alarm flashed an error. ‘That’s not right, baby. Try again. You don’t want the police coming, do you?’

‘One … seven … it’s one seven eight nine. Yeah, that’s it.’

She tried again, and the panel flashed a message: Code Accepted.

Brooke smiled in triumph and relief. ‘Are you ready, lover? Let’s go upstairs.’

She took Lenny by the hand and led him into the shadows of the hallway. He groped her body in unpleasant ways as they climbed the stairs, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t thinking about what he was going to do to her. Not tonight.

She was thinking: This is the last time.

She was thinking: 1789.

*

Brooke wondered if Lenny knew. Somewhere in his head, he had to know that she’d been the one to set him up. Thanks to her, his wife was dead, but oh God, oh God, it was an accident. No one was supposed to be home.

If Lenny suspected, he’d never said a word.

Whenever they met now, they pretended to be nothing but business acquaintances. On most days, she could forget what she’d done, but not when she saw his face at the City Council meetings. Those were the unbearable moments. She’d sit in the front row before she had to speak, and he would be there on the elevated platform, behind the microphone. She would swear each time that she wouldn’t look at him. She’d repeat it to herself: Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.

Even so, sooner or later, she always did. He would be staring at her; their eyes would meet. She’d suffer that little smirk on his face and know exactly what he was thinking. He was undressing her. Remembering all the times he’d been inside her. Getting hard behind the Council table as he thought about her mouth swallowing him.

He had to know the truth, but if he did, he’d pushed it out of his mind. He’d never made any attempt to get revenge or to punish her. Even now, if she’d let him fuck her again, he would have done it. If she’d whispered a price, he would have paid it. That was what made her sick. To him, she was still nothing but a whore.

The knife.

Brooke pressed the point of the blade into her wrist, deep enough that she winced in pain. She didn’t imagine the pain would last long. Just a sting, like a needle prick, if she did it fast enough. Once the blood began to flow, she would grow light-headed. Eventually, she would pass out before her breath grew ragged and her heart stopped beating.

She stared at herself and Dory in the photograph. Sweet, naive kids.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen.’

The knife slipped in the sweat of her hand. She was scared. None of this was going the way she had planned. Her mind fought with itself and refused to let go. She was still a coward, unable to end it. When she tried again, the knife dropped from her fingers to the floor of the car. She left it there.

Beside her, on the passenger seat, her cell phone buzzed with a text message. She knew it was him. She thought about ignoring it, but he’d always controlled her. She couldn’t resist.

Where are you? I need to see you.

It was never over. She was right where she was ten years ago. Under his thumb. Nothing had changed. She texted back: No. And then before he could reply, she added: I’m done. I can’t do this anymore.

Her phone buzzed again. WHERE ARE YOU?

She felt his rage, and even now it terrified her. She barely knew where she was. The car had seemingly driven itself. When she looked at the land around her, she realized she was in a deserted park by the harbor waters. Her windows were clouded with steam and frost. The car rocked with the lake wind. I’m on the Point.

He texted again. Stay there.

Stay there. Don’t move. He was coming to get her. She wrote back what she was thinking: It’s too late for that.

Brooke turned off her phone before he could reply. She didn’t want to hear from him again. This was the end. If she stayed, if she did what she’d planned to do, then he would be the one to find her. He would make her disappear and no one would ever know what had happened. The thought was appalling.

If she was alive, he would kill her if she stayed. That was why he was coming to find her. She was the only link now between him and the truth. She was the last witness.

She couldn’t bear to let him win again. Not after all these years, not after the way he’d haunted her. She couldn’t let him escape. She had to do what she should have done ten years ago. The only way to make peace with her past, the only way to make him pay, was to confess everything.